Dearly Beloved
by VoodooLilly
Summary: AU after 'Flood' episode 5.03. Cristina Yang is also turning over a new leaf, ditching men and focusing on surgery. Fate and one hot Army Guy have other plans for her. T for now, eventual M.
1. Chapter 1: Lucky Star

Title: Dearly Beloved

Pairing: Cristina Yang/Owen Hunt

Rating: Eventual M, this is just T

Summary: AU from 'Flood' episode (5.03?) Cristina is taking a page from McSteamy's book and turning over a new leaf. No more brooding over men (cough Burke) and she is devoting herself to perfecting her surgical techniques in a broader spectrum. Unfortunately Fate, and Army Guy, have other plans for her.

Disclaimer: If I owned any part of Grey's Anatomy, I wouldn't be buying knockoffs. I can only take credit for my lame witisisms and devious imagination. Feedback makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, especially when it's constructive!

* * *

"Dearly beloved, we gather here today to celebrate the end of Cristina Minh Yang and Preston Andrew Burke. Rest in pieces, you acclaim hoarding jerk." She said to the empty walls and bare floors of Burke's apartment. All her meager belongings were sitting in boxes piled haphazardly on the sunny floor of her new apartment. Torres had moved out yesterday on her day off, taking most of the furniture and other things. Callie had the cash to pay for movers. Cristina did too, but why waste the money when she was strong enough to do it herself and had already conned Meredith into helping? Besides, Mer had a car, which she was grudgingly driving right now with the last big load. There were only a few things left to really take care of. A few boxes, the deposit check, her mail, and those last words to the paint and ghosts.

She was strong enough to say goodbye, once and for all, to Preston Burke. At least with no witnesses around, and a rousing chorus of Madonna songs on her iPod to bolster her before doing it. The Material Girl was necessary for today, because she was finally coming out of the Dark Place.

Scooping up her last ratty box of crap she paused by the kitchen counter, one hand idly skipping the cool tiles. How many times had she sat here watching him do any number of tasks? Too many. But no more, she was strong, not some weak, emotional train wreck drowning in self pity and aloneness. She wasn't a Bambi, boo-hooing to anyone who would listen for five seconds. No, she was a kickass cardio god, temporarily branching into other areas of surgery for a bit of well rounding, but still a cardio god. Bracing the box on her hip, one slim hand fished in her pocket for something she'd been dragging around for a long time.

His three carat, flawless Princess cut ring. She snorted, seriously, Princess cut? She'd always thought of herself as a queen or a goddess, not a mere princess when she was a little girl. Now, she was a woman with power; a surgeon.

Setting it carefully on the edge of the counter, in plain view, she turned, hitching the box into both hands, and left the apartment for the last time. Hey, the next tenant could use it for rent, or drugs, or whatever, courtesy of that jerk. The thought put a merry grin on her face as she hit the call button for the elevator. Fucking things always took forever. She tapped her foot, humming a few bars of Lucky Star just because she liked it. Damn, her shoe was untied. Sighing, she set the box on the floor and knelt down to tie her sneaker just as the stupid elevator dinged to announce its arrival. Perfect fucking timing as usual.

Glancing up from her busy fingers, she nearly fell on her ass. Seeing McBadass standing in well cut civie clothes, smirking down at her was just a _bit_ of a shock.

"But- you're supposed to be… Do you have a twin brother in Iraq?" Damn! She could not keep her cool around this guy at all! Every time she'd interacted with him when she met him she'd been a gaping dolt, who couldn't keep her attention focused on anything but his fine ass and kissable mouth. Then he _had_ kissed her and she was so done. Some hard core cardio god she was!

He had the nerve to laugh at her even as he offered her a hand up. She didn't do hands up, ever, but there her slim fingers were, clasped in his as he heaved her to her feet. Trying to collect her scattered wits, she tugged her hand from his grip. He let her go, holding both palms up in a 'no offense' sort of gesture. She picked up her ragged box, praying to god there were no dirty panties or anything else embarrassing hanging out the edges.

"I only have sisters. I was in Iraq, and then my tour ended. I could have stayed in the Pit for more adventure, but someone once told me there was a decent high to be had working at a trauma hospital stateside. Thought I'd see if she was right." Owen casually tucked his hands into his pockets, the denim hugging that long, lean stretch of thigh… Focus! It wasn't her imagination; his smirk deepened to a sexy, knowing grin. It pissed her off even as she felt her nipples harden. Bastard.

"Yeah, okay. But what are you doing _here_? At my apart- no, not mine any more, at my _old_ apartment? You're not some kind of creepy, Army guy, stalker are you?" one elegant eyebrow quirked in disbelief, if he was she was going to be pissed.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "No, though I did lie to find out your address. Said I was your doctor, wanted to follow up on your icicle impalement. I think the nurse was a little intimidated. I-" he stopped speaking, grin fading to that intense seriousness of his before taking a deep breath. Those impossibly blue eyes pinned her like lasers, searing her skin where they touched. "I want to know you."

Shit.

It was suddenly almost impossible to breath, each breathe reduced to near pants. The lace of her bra was a delicious friction against her breasts on each shallow inhalation, her pulse was humming under her skin and all of her clothes felt too hot and constricting. He wanted to know her? Sputtering, her brain tried to think of anything to say even as her body clamored unequivocally, 'yes!'

"Stalker-y, but very hot. You left Iraq and came here to tell me you want to know me? Intellectually or Biblically?" double shit! Her brain had definitely found something to say, conveniently cutting out the brain-to-mouth edit process. It was a struggle to choke back a hysterical little giggle. No hands up, and no giggling. Ever. She'd broken the hands up rule, so she'd be damned before giggling in front of him. It made the urge to do so even worse.

That sexy, knowing grin again. "Oh definitely both." The elevator doors, impatient to get back to their business dinged and started to close. Owen casually held them open, gallantly gesturing for her to go in. "You were going down, right?" her brain dove straight into the gutter.

"I usually don't do that till after the third date, but thanks for holding the elevator." The no giggling rule left the building as she lost it, mirth pouring from her lips and eyes in only slightly hysteric laughter and two tears. He shook his head, chuckling softly. Deftly he grabbed her arm and hauled her into the elevator with him, the doors finally sliding shut. It took a second for her to process that she was in a tiny elevator, with not nearly enough oxygen or space to protect her from being intensely aware of the man next to her. Her laughter quickly faded as she focused on keeping upright and breathing.

"I'll have to remember that fact after our third date. What are you doing tonight?" His hand slid from her bicep to her forearm, a light caress, harmless. The heat from his hand fuzzed what he said for a few critical seconds.

"Wait, wait, wait! I didn't say I'd go out with you! You- just- no. No dating. I don't date." She stepped back from him, his hand falling from her arm, till her back hit the metal wall. Was this how Meredith felt when any one of her disastrous drama moments caught her in elevators with a man? It sucked.

"Good. I don't date either. I asked you what you were doing tonight, not if you wanted to go on a 'date' with me. If you are free, it will be you, and me, an activity and possibly drinks afterward. No more, no less. I meant when I said I wanted to know you. It only seems fair to declare my intentions so you can plan battle strategy." He leaned against the opposite wall, watching her intently. It wasn't the super intense look of before, where he stripped her to the soul and liked what he saw. It was almost... neutral.

"Strategy? Is getting to know me a war? Do you have a whole offensive planned or just spent to much time in the trenches?" She didn't know whether to be flattered or pissed. She settled for pissed.

"Before you get all ruffled, ask yourself this; if I didn't have a plan of attack, would you honestly have made this easy for me by saying 'yes' to a simple date?" he grinned again, taking the sting from it.

"No. Strategies are good, I guess. And I'm not-" her brain thought one thing and her mouth said another. "-doing anything tonight after 5. Just- unpacking shit and stuff." He cheeks flamed with a blush. Army Guy knew she wasn't going to be an easy sell, _and_ he made her blush. He was bad news. She could still say 'no' to going anyplace with him. Just because she was free didn't mean she had to go with him.

"Good. Meet me in front of the hospital at 6." He pushed off the wall and stepped right in front of her that grin making him look even more attractive and her brain that much slower. Was he going to kiss her again? She held her breath, anticipating it. If he kissed her again, like before, screw waiting, screw knowing her. She just wanted him to screw _her_.

Relieved, the elevator doors opened, glad to be done with their tense cargo. Owen just wagged his eyebrows at her and jauntily strode out of the elevator. Cristina was momentarily floored, sucking in a disappointed breath. The doors started closing before she roused herself to action.

"Hey! Wait!" she hustled into the lobby to see Owen just about to leave the building. He paused for a moment, waiting. "You never said what the activity was!"

"So? What does it matter what we're doing? You'll come or you won't. Six o'clock, in front of the ER doors." he left then, confidant and insufferably smug, irritating and hot. Bastard.

Cristina shuffled out in front of the building, surreptitiously checking down the street to see if she could see Hunt, and yell at him for being mysterious. No sign of him. Sighing, she dropped her box on the ground and whipped out her cell phone, texting Mer to come pick her up. Like hell was she going to go tonight. Even if he had intrigued her, just a little.


	2. Chapter 2: Time is Running Out

Title: Dearly Beloved

Summary: Cristina tries to get ready and fails horribly, so seeks a consult. Callie lends a hand- sort of.

Rating: T, M will come eventually.

Disclaimer: I only wish Grey's was my brain trust, but it's not, so tragic.

* * *

_You're something beautiful  
a contradiction  
I wanna play the game  
I want the friction_

_-Muse_

5:45. It was already 5-fucking-45 and she was standing in the middle of her bedroom, boxes flung open, random pieces of clothing scattered to hell and back, wearing only lacy black bra and panty set. Panic and fury fought for supremacy in her chest, wielding Ginsu knives of indecision. This was why she didn't date.

"I can't do this! Ugh!" She hurled a skimpy tank top into a corner and kicked an open box across the floor. Damn Owen Hunt! She was rummaging in another open box when her door opened, Callie slipping into the room and whistling with disbelief.

"Uh, you having a bit of a problem Yang?"

"No, everything is sunshine and kitties." She hurled another article of clothing, this one an ugly, worn, yet much beloved Stanford hoodie.

"I was just trying to help, no need to go all postal." Callie shrugged, slightly offended and prepared to head from the danger zone.

"Okay, you know what? I have this thing, with a guy, who is so, so-" _scorching hot when he kisses…_ "Persistent, he got me to agree to go do an 'activity' with him, and I have no idea what to fucking wear. I don't date." Cristina went over to the corner and fetched the hoodie and a slinky little top that was mostly straps and ties with enough material to cover her front, but leave the back bare. She used to wear it clubbing once upon a time. She held up the string thing.

Callie shook her head, a shit eating grin blooming on her face. "A Not Date, is it? Well, what are you two doing?" Torres casually leaned against the door frame, arms crossed over her chest. She was amused as hell and Cristina was starting to feel resentful and stupid for telling her, even if they were sort of friends. She reigned in her irritation, as she needed wardrobe advice, and tossed the string top. She picked up her only dress, the tight lavender number she'd worn on her only official date with Burke. No way in hell was she wearing it ever again.

"He wouldn't tell me." she grumped balling up the dress and viciously hurling it in her overflowing trash can.

Callie raised both eyebrows in shock. Wow. "Uh- really? I mean you never-" Torres had to stop herself from saying anything else, knowing how prickly Cristina could be when aggravated. "Um, I'd wear the D&G jeans your mom sent last time, nice but comfortable shoes, a sexy shirt, like that turquoise one hanging from your lamp and cover it up with the hoodie in your hand or a casual jacket. That way if you go someplace low key, you won't look overdressed in the hoodie, but if it's someplace fancy, you'll look just dressy enough to not feel out of place. I have a necklace and earrings that will go well with the shirt, and you can hide them under your hair and jacket till you find out which kind of place you're going." Callie bit her lip, hoping she hadn't offended her room mate.

"Really? Huh, that's totally sneaky and smart! Thanks." She grabbed the shirt from the lamp and went into the walk in closet for the designer garment bag filled with all the shit her mom had brought up with her from Beverly Hills. 'Honeymoon' clothes, Helen had called them. She hadn't bothered to look at any of them in weeks. Callie had poked through the bag the day her mother brought it, as had Izzie, gushing longingly over clothes she'd never be able to afford. Cristina personally couldn't care less if is was couture or knockoffs covering her ass, so long as she was comfortable had didn't have to coordinate much.It wasn't that she couldn't, she just felt it to be a waste of braincells.

Finding the right jeans, she emerged from the closet to see Callie discreetly picking up and rearranging some of the chaos Cristina had left in her wake. She frowned, but let it go. Let her clean if she wanted, it was easy enough to put back to rights.

"Hey, Callie... I know you're all close and pelvic with Hahn now, but you used to like men so... do you think the underwear is too much? God knows I'm asking for it from this guy, but I don't want him to think so. Desperation is not attractive." the lacy bra and panty set was more to make Cristina feel sexy than anything else. Since Burke, she hadn't bothered much with nonessential grooming. Shaving her legs, and other things, earlier had been almost scary. So the idea of a man, other than Burke, seeing her naked bits had her nervous. And excited.

Torres almost choked on her tongue, turning an interesting shade of red before resuming normal lung function. "Erica and I aren't- well, okay, we are but not like you're insinuating. Anyway, the undies are nice, even if he doesn't see them, you'll know they are there and won't be weirded out if he does get to see them, right? So who is this guy? Do I know him?" Score one for Callie on the change the subject meter.

Cristina hiked the tight jeans over her ass and zipped them up, desperately trying to think of something to say to stall. Like hell she wanted to tell Callie that she was hoping to bang Army Guy extraordinaire, Major Owen Hunt. Callie already had a wee case of hero worship for the guy, had in fact spent several days gushing over her triumph with the paralyzed guy at Owen's suggestion. Cristina did not want to hear more, or receive the third degree as to why he was back, and asking her on a Not Date. She hadn't told anyone about the kiss in the procedure room, not even Meridith, a first for her. No, that kiss was all hers, no one else, it didn't need to be analyzed or picked apart. Besides, telling Mer and talking about it would ruin all the little fantasies she concocted in the dead of night.

"Just this guy I met a while back, no big deal." She stopped talking, eeling into the turquoise shirt and kicking herself for not thinking of something more fiendishly clever. "Do you have that jewelery or what? I was supposed to meet him at 6." She refused to look at the clock. She knew she was late. Shrugging into the hoodie she realized she still needed shoes. Damn. Back into the closet.

"Yeah, I'll get them now. You do realize it's 6:10 right now?" Callie recognized evasion when she saw it and was burning up with curiosity. She must know the guy. Which one was it? She popped out of Cristina's room to grab the stuff, speculating wildly. When she returned Cristina was sitting on her bed tugging on her favorite pair of non-hospital shoes, a pair of tobacco brown leather knee-high boots with a low heel. The hoodie really was grungy, but seemed to suit her. Handing over the silver and aqua beads, Callie watched Yang efficiently put them both on. "So you're not going to tell me, huh?"

"Nope."

"Bummer"

"Yep."

"You're seriously late."

"Shut up. And don't wait up."

Callie laughed as Cristina picked up her favorite scarf and almost ran from the room. He must be some guy.

* * *

A/N: Well, this got a little longer than I thought, and I didn't even get to Owen (sigh, so hot!). I just couldn't resist a little Cristina/Callie bonding moment, they seem like they get along well enough in a strange way. Anyway! I'm posting this now with the rest to follow. Thanks for all the lovely encouragement, makes me all giddy. If anyone has any editing suggestions, let me know so I can make it better. Now back to the writing!


	3. Chapter 3: Stuck on you

Title: Dearly Beloved

Rating: still T

Summary: Owen takes Cristina on a Not Date, with interesting consequences (Part one).

Disclaimer: Ah! If only such hotness as KMcK were mine! Sadly, it's not, nor is GA. Don't sue me for just dreaming.

A/N: Again, it got away from me, and is longer than I planned. Oh well! The date itself is next, promise! And in my little world here, Owen is taller than Cristina, even though they appear to be roughly the same height on the show. So there.

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_I thought I'd drop you easily  
But that was not to be  
You burrowed like a summer tic  
So you invade my sleep and confuse my dreams  
Turn my nights to sleepless itch_

_-Paramore_

She was late. Here he was, pacing in front of a strange hospital, waiting for a woman who had haunted him for weeks now, and she was late. Owen was usually an excellent judge of character. This afternoon, standing in the elevator and smelling her perfume, he was dead sure she would meet him tonight, even though he'd told her nothing about his plans. A declaration of intent must not have been enough; he'd have to declare war next time, but not tonight. Facts clearly pointed to the obvious; she wasn't coming.

"Damn. This is why I don't date."

Feeling stupid and disappointed, Owen kicked a rock down the curving drive of the ER entrance and swore softly under his breath. Of all the stunts he'd pulled in his 36 years of life, this one was by far the most pathetic. Oh well. She would have been a dream come to life to know, or so his instincts told him. Then again, how right had they been today?

Stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets, he turned toward the parking lot, scowl firmly in place. 6:35. She wasn't coming.

"Wait! Shit! I'm sorry- just, wait!" head whipping around, he saw Cristina running around the side of the building, that flyaway mane of black curls foaming around the perfect oval of her face. Color stained her cheeks and made her even lovelier than he remembered. On the nights he actually got sleep, hours had been devoted to reliving their few moments together before taking himself in hand, as it were. And on the nights he didn't sleep, he still thought of her, was haunted by her and it pissed him off. Wanting a woman half a world away while gambling with death every day was hell on his concentration.

"You're late. You must not do punctual as well as dates." His tone was gruffer than he intended, but then again, she'd kept him waiting for half an hour longer than he normally would have waited for anyone else.

"Yeah, well, I don't do mysterious either, yet here I am. And this isn't a date." He couldn't help but stare at her mouth curling up in a wry smile even as the sarcasm dripped from her lips. His own half smirk answered hers and he shrugged, feeling confidant once more. He _had_ judged her right.

"No, this isn't a date. What kept you so long? I almost left for the activity on my own." Liar. He would have waited another ten minutes before leaving and drowning his embarrassment and self disgust in a bottle of single malt scotch at the little dive bar across the way. Her face screwed up adorably as emotions flicked across her features before she just shrugged.

"Girl stuff. Not in the habit of it, so of course it took longer to get out of the way than I wanted… and why am I telling you this? Crazy, must be crazy." She mumbled the last bit to herself, even though he could plainly hear her. Owen laughed, at her most definitely, but he thought she was adorable. She bristled like a wet cat, indignation beading on figuratively soaked fur. Shaking his head, he offered her his hand, hoping she'd take it again, though he was pretty sure she wouldn't.

"I can't picture you wasting time on anything you didn't find necessary. You're not crazy." The warm slide of her slim fingers across his palm as she took his hand was startling, to both of them it seemed. She kept her eyes focused on their joined hands, a look of mild disbelief and amusement plainly written on her face. Convulsively his grip tightened on her and pulled her closer, more because he could than for any other reason. He found himself doing that a lot, invading her personal space.

She wasn't very tall when he stood next to her like this, the top of her head barely coming to his lips. When he'd kissed her on the exam table, she'd been boosted up several more inches, and he'd still had to bend to reach that luscious mouth. He liked tall women, liked meeting them eye to eye. Dainty, frail creatures, soft not just in body but mind as well held no appeal for him. And yet Cristina _appeared_ to be those things on the surface, though he felt in his bones that she was made of iron under it all. She stirred something primitive in him, something that liked towering over her and kissing her senseless. She stirred it now, just as she had then. He found it to be paradoxical, as the only other time he'd felt like that was fighting in Iraq, reduced to adrenaline haze and hyper awareness of each ticking second.

Killing her wasn't the top activity on his list. Far from it.

"Um, yeah, as much as I like standing here, holding hands in front of the place I work, which is coincidentally filled with the biggest gossips on the planet, can we go?" She was squirming a little under the intensity of his gaze, and from his closeness. Owen had to mentally shake himself and drag his attention from the ripe curve of her lips and back to the mission at hand.

"Right. My car's over in the lot." He started walking to the back lot where his Jeep Liberty was parked, her hand still firmly grasped in his. She made no move to reclaim it, and he felt no desire to release it. Owen didn't hold hands. His ex wife had always hated the fact he wasn't 'romantic' like that. He hadn't liked holding hands with her because she always made him feel trapped. Holding Cristina's hand was like holding a beating heart, a God-like feeling of being able to touch something you shouldn't.

Fishing in his pocket, he pulled out the keys and unlocked the car, holding the door open for her. He didn't do romantic, but chivalry had been firmly inculcated in to him since childhood. Gull wing eyebrows rose in disbelief and she gave him a mocking little smile, but let him help her into the car. Shutting the door, he jogged over to the driver's side and slipped in, starting the ignition. She was staring at him with those impossibly dark eyes, speculating.

"So where are we going? You're not going to go all Ted Bundy, abducting me and leaving my dead, naked body someplace remote, are you?"

Owen laughed, backing the car up and pulling out of the parking lot. "No. If I had to take your naked body anywhere, it would be to my apartment, not to a backwater ditch. We're going to Bellevue."

"What? As in, out of the city?" he couldn't quite be sure without better light, but he thought he could see a blush staining her smooth cheeks. So, she wanted him to see her naked? A very promising start. But then again, she'd taken his kiss in the procedure room like dry earth receives the benediction of rain. She'd been as full of hunger as he had. No, her objection was not knowing him. Hence the 'dating'. It was a serious sign of madness. Owen didn't date. Owen had brief, mutually satisfying sexual affairs with women as busy, and dedicated to their professions, as he was. When they ended, no love lost. Cristina Yang hadn't been the main reason he'd left the Army, or why he was back in Seattle, but he would be lying if he didn't privately admit that she was a serious bonus to an unpalatable situation.

"Yes, out of the city. Let me guess, you moved here just for your internship and residency, and I bet you the first round of drinks that you haven't left the city limits more than half a dozen times since." The rhythmic flick of the windshield wipers was a quiet distraction in the silence of the car. As was typical of Seattle, a thick drizzle was washing the night dark streets clean, though the low hung clouds got to be oppressive. Nights in the Sandpit were beautiful, crystal clear with the dome of the heavens watching your every move, the stars burning mercilessly and bright. One of the few beautiful things about that desert hell. Her eyes were like that sometimes, clear and bright despite their dark hue, merciless as the stars and as far away...

"Earth to Owen! You going all PTSD on me? I will sedate you if I have to." She'd been talking the whole time he was musing on her dark eyes. Not one word had registered, and in her concern over his lack of animation, she'd but a hand on his knee, worried he was about to crash them into a concrete divider. His eyes went to her hand, where he could feel it searing him through his jeans, then to the dark eyes in question. Something naked and raw passed over his face and she inhaled sharply, fingers tensing on his leg before slowly being drawn back. The air in the car was heavier with more than just humidity. It was clotted with tension, an effort to draw into the lungs. It eased when he turned his eyes back to the road, thinning with each passing road sign to be replaced by a quiet awkwardness.

It wasn't every day a woman could make him feel like pulling over a speeding vehicle and tearing her clothes off.

"Twice." She was looking out the window as they drove over Lake Washington.

"Pardon?"

"Twice, not six. I've left the city limits twice. Once to pick my mother up from the airport, and once to hang with my friend at her boytoy's ex-trailer." She sounded almost petulant as she confessed. Of course he couldn't help but laugh, so hard tears threatened to spill down his cheeks. She looked affronted, but he could see her struggling not to smile.

She lost the battle and laughed with him, both of them near hysteric but the tension finally disappearing. They lapsed into a comfortable silence as the streetlights flashed by. His instincts had been more than right.

* * *

Translation: PTSD= Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

A/N: Sorry, to everyone anxiously waiting, I've been anxiously waiting myself, and in part, terribly conflicted. I've been watching the show and I'm not sure if I love or hate where they are going with Owen's character, and if I want him to be the same as my Owen. After much deliberation and watching eagerly all the new episodes, I made a decision. Owen Hunt in my miniverse is going to be in The Before, not The After. I think I love After Owen on the show, but he's not the guy I want to write, even though several awesome authors out there have near brought me to tears with their stunning prose. Kudos ya'll! More to come, I swear!


	4. Chapter 4: Tear you apart

Title: Dearly Beloved

Rating: T

Summary: The Not Date. If it had been a real date, it was unlike any other Cristina had been on with a man. How novel!

Disclaimer: Still own nothing; Shonda and ABC don't play well with others, so sad.

A/N: So… This was waaaaay too long in coming, sorry, truly and deeply. Me and my creative process is- slow, and meticulous. I've had more than half of this written for weeks and am never quite happy with it. Couple that with a side story that's obsessing me, and you have forever between posts. Again, sorry! Thanks for all the great reviews, and insightful comments, they fill me with glee. I can only promise to try to get the next chapter out before the sun goes supernova on the solar system. I have some good ideas for it and motivation, so I'm hoping for a much quicker turn around time, life permitting.

* * *

_It's only just a crush, it'll go away  
It's just like all the others it'll go away  
Or maybe this is danger and you just don't know  
You pray it all away but it continues to grow_

_-She Wants Revenge_

Watching the pavement fly by outside the car window was soothing. As was the silence in the car. She appreciated a man who could sit in silence without feeling the need to fill it with inane prattle, usually about them selves. On her one _official_ date with Burke, it had been sheer torture sitting across the crystal and china set table, desperate for something, _anything_, to say to one another that didn't deal with surgeries or gossip about surgeries. Needless to say, when that man had collapsed it had saved the evening from total mortification and ruin. Owen was content to drive in silence, not even turning on the radio to fill it with annoying jangle.

Yes, Cristina appreciated a man who liked the quiet.

All too soon the lights from the city across the lake came into glaring view and they pulled off the freeway into another world. It reminded her of Beverly Hills, the downtown district, not the Rodeo Drive crap that all the tourists knew, with its ultra-modern high rises reaching for the sky. Not like Seattle with its pioneer roots. She really didn't know much about Washington State. Hell, she barely knew California, and she'd grown up there. Seattle was mostly a blur outside the ten or twelve city blocks comprising the hospital, her various apartments and Meredith's place. So finding herself someplace new, with a man like Owen, she was burning up with curiosity.

How did he know Washington? What had he been doing in Seattle in the first place? Why was he back now? The urge to ask questions made her resent the silence, but she'd be hanged before she was the one to break it. He was the one making her do this after all, if he wanted to talk, he'd have to be the one to start it. It was only fair after all. Realizing how contradictory her feelings were made her stifle a smile. Wouldn't do to encourage him.

They eventually pulled into a parking lot near the edge of the downtown area. The building set back from the street was a nondescript, two-story converted warehouse. The unassuming facade gave no hint as to its true purpose and the sign on the building was just some initials. BG&RA. Whatever. It had just better not be a bowling alley. Or a strip club. Either of those venues would warrant an immediate departure on her part. She'd hitch hike back if she couldn't find a cab.

Owen parked and hopped out of the car while she was still fumbling with the release on her seatbelt. When the door opened next to her she was a little surprised, even more so by his out held hand. Where had he learned all the chivalry crap? Okay, not crap, it was flattering even as it weirded her out. From any other guy she'd take it as an insult, that he didn't respect her strength and intelligence to open a door all by her lonesome. From Owen... she didn't mind as much. Though it was still kind of creepy.

Giving him another mocking smile and quirked eyebrow, she took his hand and let him help her from the car. He read her look perfectly and just shook his head, that smug little half smirk his only rebuttal even as he tucked her hand through his elbow and stroked the back softly. She could swear she felt the skin burning where he touched it, going straight to her head and fuzzing up her logic. The sensation seemed to fade somewhat as they entered the building and she became aware again of her surroundings.

There were gun posters on the walls, guns in display cases, bulletin boards announcing tournaments and gatherings. In big, bold letters on the wall above a reception window was inscribed 'Welcome to the Bellevue Gun and Riffle Association'. It wasn't a strip club, and it sure as hell wasn't anything she was prepared for or expecting. Her eyebrows nearly disappeared into her hairline as she finished looking around, eyes stopping on Owen.

Blue eyes met brown and held her pinned for a few timeless seconds. He read the surprise on her face, searched hard for signs of freaking out, and, seeing none, he just shrugged laconically and grinned, letting her nerveless hand drop from his arm. As he went over to the reception window, talking quietly with the woman seated behind it, Cristina gathered her scattered wits and fiercely berated herself.

Stupid! What were you honestly expecting? Candlelight dinner and make-out music? Even though this _is_ kind of serial killer-y, it's not the usual crap people do on first Not Dates. Or even real dates. But what the hell does it mean? Does he just, god forbid, want to be friends, hasn't even thought about that kiss? Was it nothing? Crap...

She almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand resting on the small of her back. This was so far out of her comfort zone right now, and she didn't really know what to do or how to react. Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Come on, we have a gallery down on the far end. I'll meet you down there after picking up our equipment and shells." He led them through a door near the window and pointed her in the right direction before heading the opposite way to a caged off area where a few people stood. Several others were already standing in sectioned off boxes, but for the most part the place was empty. Being careful to stay on the safe side of the yellow line on the floor, she made her way down to the last gallery and leaned against the wall, fingers toying with the zipper of her hoodie.

Callie had not covered this in her little speech about appropriate Not Date attire. In theory, this was casual, so she should keep the jacket on, but it was almost too warm inside the building, and if she were going to shoot anything, or anyone, it was best to be unencumbered. Yeah, shooting Owen was rising on the list of possibilities for the evening, first for being mysterious, then for surprising the hell out of her with this little 'activity'. That decided, Cristina shed the much abused sweatshirt and tossed it on a chair by their gallery. She was just fluffing out her hair when she heard footsteps and an indrawn breath.

Owen was back, a .9 mm Beretta and a .22 Kimber rifle (both with safeties on and locked) in his hands. A box was wedged under one arm, presumably full of ammo, and last was eye and ear protection for two. Cristina could feel his eyes scorching her skin as he drank her in, that serious, penetrating look on his face that unnerved her. It more than unnerved her; it felt like he was stripping her past even her skin. It was sexual, and hungry, consuming really, and it made her feel vulnerable. But the truly terrifying bit was part of her _liked_ it.

"I think you're beautiful." he murmured, so softly she almost didn't hear. He seemed to shake himself out of his daze and busied himself with setting down the guns, unlocking them and laying out the bullets on the bench in front of the range. Cristina was glad, it gave her a few moments to compose herself and get over the shock of his words.

Men had told her she was beautiful before, though she preferred 'smart', 'sexy', 'gifted' or even 'heinous bitch', more. She never believed 'beautiful'. It was a deep-rooted belief of hers that a woman could be smart, _or_ beautiful, not both, and Cristina would take smart any day over beautiful. Too many girls and women in LA were 'beautiful', and though some were smart, they capitalized on beautiful first, using it to get what they wanted. And honestly, how many people saw a gorgeous woman and at first glance credited her with having a brain bigger than a walnut? Damn few. So when Cristina's lovers said she was beautiful, she brushed it off. Owen almost made her believe it. Almost.

"Come here." That gruff voice, the one starring in so many of her little late night musings, jolted her out of her thoughts. Again. He was smirking at her, again, holding the riffle at the ready and proffering ear/eye protection to her. Those baby-blues she never got tired of drowning in were already shielded behind those silly yellow-tinted glasses and the orange earmuffs clashed against his red hair.

Cristina made a face as she took her pair of glasses and slid them on. The green earmuffs she just hung around her neck for the moment, sure he was going to give a very longwinded, technical speech on how to shoot the riffle in his hands. Joy. Owen handed her the riffle then moved to stand behind her, strong arms coming around her to position her nerveless hands on the oak stock. His breath was warm puffs against the side of her neck and she fought hard to repress a bone deep shiver every time his stubble scraped the soft skin.

"Load the shells. Cock the bolt. Pull the butt tight into your shoulder. Breath in. Aim between the pins on the barrel, both eyes open. Squeeze, don't pull, the trigger. Breath out. Simple." He stepped away from her, her back feeling cold even as higher brain function returned. Simple. Right.

Cristina took a deep, cleansing breath in, letting it out with a whoosh. One-handed, she managed to pull the earmuffs over her ears and block out the quiet sound of his breathing behind her. In the echo-y quiet of the earmuffs, she focused on her breathing for another second, further clearing her head of all things Owen.

Load. The copper of the shells is cool under her too-warm fingers.

Cock. So dirty that little word, especially in her frame of mind, but the sound the bolt makes is satisfaction in its own way.

Ready. The butt of the gun rests naturally in the hollow of her shoulder, slender arms hefting the weight of the riffle easily. Surgery was an endurance trial in muscle control.

Steady. Breath in. Sight the target. Trust the aim is true and not off center, range is cake.

Go. Quick squeeze of the trigger, brace for any recoil. Though with the .22's it's not much.

Again. Again. Again till all ten bullets find the paper target, neatly clustered just shy of bull's-eye. The riffle leads just slightly to the left. Then again, it'd been years since the last time she'd gone target shooting.

Blank faced, Cristina laid the riffle down on the counter, flipping the safety even though it was empty and pulled off her earmuffs. She turned to Owen, and smugly congratulated herself on a) not laughing at his expression, and b) not gloating/rolling her eyes/victory dancing at/in front of him. Though the sight of russet eye brows disappearing into ginger hair was fairly comical and dance worthy. Coup de _grâce__,_ she just shrugged laconically and gave him her version of _his_ little smirk.

Owen shook his head, a delighted grin transforming his usually harsh features. He looked younger, lighter, when he smiled like that. The sexy smirk did wonders for her, but this look, this smile... it was hers. She'd brought that out in him, and something told her not many people ever got to see this smile. His rich laughter touched her ears and sent tingles to all the right spots. It was an infectious laugh, one she could grow to love. Dropping the smirk, she smiled back and laughed with him, delighted in the whole situation, and laughing just because she could, because _he_ was.

Taking the earmuffs from her, mirth still sparking in his eyes, he tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. The silence between them was charged again, not like in the car, where one false step would unleash the beast, but softer, still echoing with shared merriment. He shook his head again, rueful and just a little abashed. Men too often underestimated her.

"I think rules of engagement need to be laid out, yes? The asker gets to ask the attendee ten questions over the duration of the activity. The attendee has to answer, or offer up something of equal value in exchange for declining a question. Fair?"

"Shouldn't the attendee be asking the questions of the one who initiated the activity in the first place?"

"No. The asker gets the questions, so that if the attendee wants to know something, she has to initiate the next activity."

"Three, questions."

"Eight."

"Five"

"Six"

"Asking the attendee out on the activity counts as one of the six."

"Done."

"Man! That was too easy, I should have held out for three! Can I make an amendment?" Cristina makes a scandalized face, amused underneath it all that they are negotiating terms for their Not Dates.

"I'll listen." He's amused too she can tell, though she has deep reservations about answering personal questions. Not even her person got freebies on intel about Cristina's past, Meredith just _got_ her without details. She had a feeling she'd be using a lot of 'equal exchange' tokens. Would he take sexual favors instead of answers? That could be _very_ good.

"Questions have to at least be loosely related to the activity, and you can't just rephrase and ask any question that the attendee refused to answer. And what constitutes 'equal exchange' for rejected questions?" Best to clarify that now before working herself up even more over the idea of sex. Owen wanted to _know_ her after all, and she'd already played the reluctant maiden, so sex probably wasn't an item on the exchange list. Pity.

"Fair amendment, I agree to that term. In exchange for not answering a question..." Owen rubbed the stubble on his chin, thinking for a moment. "In exchange the attendee has to voluntarily disclose a personal fact. And not just a one or two word discloser, it has to be a substantial fact, or a casual one elaborated with history. Fair?" He held his hand out to her, to seal the deal on their terms. Cristina unconsciously rubbed the spot on her shirt just over her icicle scar while she weighed the pros and cons.

"Fair." Her slim fingers where engulfed by his as he shook her hand firmly. Not some limp wristed little shake, but a good, strong handshake like he'd give another man. Cristina hated it when she shook a man's hand and he held it like a delicate butterfly, the motion perfunctory. It always screamed lack of respect to her. Not that she was some crazed über feminist who shook everyone's hand like she was crushing beer cans, but she was a person, and felt gender shouldn't matter in the face of excellence.

Taking up the Beretta, Owen calmly loaded the clip with ammo. "First Question: Where did you learn to shoot like that? You said the military life wasn't for you." Cristina had to drag her eyes away from watching his hands handling the gun, and her mind from the gutter in order to answer his question.

"Um, it wasn't. Isn't. In high school, I was captain of the riffle team. I initially joined to piss my mother off. She and my stepfather felt that I spent too much time by myself and on academics. She gave the ultimatum that I had to join a club, or take up a sport to ensure I became a 'well rounded young lady'. She thought I'd pick up ballet again. My stepfather thought I'd go for horseback riding. I'd done both as a kid so they thought I'd stick with what I had already mastered. I picked the riffle team for spite, ended up liking it, and... yeah...that's where I learned to shoot." Cristina felt squeamish on the inside, talking about things that were behind her. And it wasn't even a super personal, drag-out-all-your-skeletons kind of question.

Except it was. She'd quit ballet and riding after her father died. He'd loved watching her do both, had encouraged and nurtured her talent. After he died, it was too hard to do either of those things, knowing he'd never be there to watch. Eventually she'd taken up riding again, not dressage, never again dressage, but jumping. To this day she hadn't so much as touched a pair of ballet shoes or a barre, even though she'd had incredible talent, even so young. She could still remember girlish dreams of Julliard and dancing her way across America and Europe. All the passion and dedication she'd put into dance, she subsumed into medicine.

Sharp blue eyes saw straight through her to all the things she didn't say. Cristina tensed, ready to bolt in the next breath. Something made her wait, just a fraction of a second longer to see what his next move was. Everything hinged on it.

A sharp nod, the click of the clip into the Beretta as he picks it up and offers it to her, a deep breath out, not a sigh, but a release of some inner tension. "Fair enough. Again?"

"Yeah." Ready. Steady. Go.

* * *


End file.
